


Blood and Gunk

by OneShotWonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Case, Shapeshifting, Solo Hunter Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneShotWonder/pseuds/OneShotWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finishes up a solo case where he had to kill a shape-shifter, cleans up, and thinks about his family while doing so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Gunk

Dean took a slow breath, feeling the fire of his anger dwindle down slightly into stomach. It didn’t go away, it never really did, but the release he felt after every kill helped a little.

He wiped the silver knife on the thigh of his jeans to get some of the blood off, and stared at the corpse on the ground with a huff of triumph. The shape-shifter was in mid-transformation when he stabbed it, and its disgusting form was left peeling as it died noisily.

If you asked a civilian what they thought of a shape-shifter, the image would be much less morbid than the reality.

Maybe they would think about that hot blue woman from the X-men movies, Mystique, or they would imagine some glossy shimmer as faces magically transform from one to the next.

In reality shape-shifters took their time, slowly peeling off the skin of their former selves and leaving slippery blobs of fat residue behind. It was unnatural, grotesque, and Dean loved that he could end it.

He spat a mouthful of blood onto the corpse and took another breath. It wasn’t the thing that killed their mother, but it was a killer, a monster, and putting it in the ground was as close as he was going to get these days.

Sadness washed over him as fragments of memories clicked like snapshots in his mind. A bowl of tomato and rice soup, a couple of out-of-tune lyrics of “Hey Jude,” a kiss on his forehead as he slept. These were the barest wisps that he hung onto with all the stubbornness he could muster. He would go to his grave with them, but before that, he had to get revenge.

Revenge drove his father, and Dean, in turn, learned that rage; for the things he lost, for the things his father lost, for the things Sammy lost.

Dean looked around the cramped sewer tunnel and peered up at the moon through the grate in the street above. His father had taught him early on how to clean up the messes they made. So far, the police hadn’t been after any of them, but it wouldn’t be a long shot for the police to think they were serial killers if they got wind of any part of the “family business.” _Damn civilians, always misinterpreting our good intentions._ So his mind got to work at trying to figure out how to leave as little evidence as possible. Not only of his presence, but of the fact that monsters were shape-shifting into everyone’s neighbor and killing people.

He though briefly about lighting the remains on fire, but knew he couldn’t risk someone coming down to investigate, the last thing he needed was the police looking into a charred body with the dental records of someone who was still alive. Instead he steeled himself and hoisted the slippery corpse up onto one shoulder to carry it further down the sewer tunnel.

The smell was unbearable, a mix of coppery blood, decaying flesh and whatever was in the sewer water. There were a few pieces of the goopy skin residue that lay around it, so Dean had to shove them in front of him with his boot while he walked through the sickening slush that ran through the tunnel.

He walked until he barely had enough light to see and made sure there were plenty of beady eyes following the foul smell of the body he carried. When he was sure he was far enough to not be noticed, he went a few more meters and dropped the corpse down into the water with squelch. His stomach rolled at the smell of the place, the feel of the shape-shifter's skin sliding off of him as it slipped out of his hands onto the tunnel floor. He really hoped the rats would eat this thing; it might be too disgusting even for them.

He turned back toward the light and sloshed his way toward the exit to the street above, thinking the whole way about how he was going to save his poor car from the gunk and blood that currently covered him. It wasn’t until he lifted the manhole cover into the street with waning adrenaline that he noticed the throbbing pain in his left side.

Oh right, he remembered with a cringe, that son of a bitch stabbed me. With the rush of the fight and his head swimming with rage, he had completely forgotten the struggle with the shape-shifter and how it had briefly gotten a hold of the silver knife.

The fight was a blur now, instincts always take over from years of training to remember many details, but he could recall the cold metal sliding noiselessly though his flesh for an instant. Dean could see blood running down his shirt from the wound and hoped that none of the shape-shifter goop had gotten into it, who knows what kind of bacteria shape-shifter gunk has in it.

He came out into a quiet suburban street, with nice, middle class houses lined up on both sides, well manicured lawns, and neat mailboxes that made him feel suddenly exposed, covered in dirt, blood and who knows what else from the fight in the sewer. He was glad it was the dead of night, so not many people were out roaming while he made the brisk stride back to his car. He only had to duck into a bush once as an old man in his robe groggily walked his Yorkshire terrier down the street.

By the time he got to his car, he was exhausted, letting the last of his adrenaline go in the chilly fall night, and his fingers felt stiff when he unlocked the Impala. He wanted a hot shower more than anything else in the world at that moment, and if he could have run to the motel from here, he would have. But he loved his Baby so he pulled a tarp out of the trunk (the actual trunk, not the space underneath where all the weapons were kept) and laid it down on the driver’s seat before getting in.

Settled comfortably on the tarp, he reached into the backseat for the first aid kit with a grunt and fumbled with the latch. First things first, he unscrewed the cap of the whisky bottle that was tucked inside the white box and took a long pull, then another, until his throat was coated in the familiar burn and his eyes started to water.

He lifted his shirt gingerly and the fabric peeled off the seeping wound in his side. He sucked air through clenched teeth and poured a bit of the whisky on the gash before grabbing a stained rag and mopping up the area. He placed a few pieces of gauze over the bleeding wound and taped it down hastily, hoping it would hold until he could get to the hotel to patch himself up properly.

He placed his bruised knuckles on the wheel and breathed in the car's memorable scent.

With his Dad on the road with Pastor Jim, and Sam at school, he felt alone, save for the Impala's familiar comfort and safety.

With all the things he had seen in his short life, he could have sworn nothing could scare him, but the loneliness that crept up without his brother and father was a cold fear, stopping him in his tracks at times. He hadn’t known how much he relied on them; needed them, until these solo hunts the past month. His Dad was getting more and more distant recently, and it made him miss Sam all the more.

He never thought much about what their lives would be like after his family got their much needed revenge. But while alone, his mind wandered to think about how they would continue. Sam was gone, out of the life, and Dean hoped and hated the fact that his little brother had a chance at a “normal” life.

He imagined how Sam would have a wife, kids, the whole white picket fence kind of life and burned with a jealously he didn’t know he had. He knew he couldn’t leave the life, not like Sam had. Dean felt certain, even after getting revenge for the death of his mother, he couldn’t settle down.

Hunting was part of his life, no, it _was_ his life, and he hadn’t known anything else since he could remember. When he was just 8 years old his father had already told him about all the things that go bump in the night, and how they could stop them. After all these years Dean still burned with a responsibility to save people. Even if he could leave the life, he knew that every time he heard some unexplained news story, he would wonder if it was their kind of case. Guilt washed over him at just the thought of leaving people to die, when he might be one of only a handful of people on the planet who knew how to stop it. He shook his head quickly, clearing his thoughts, and started the Impala, pulling out onto the main road and heading to the motel that he would call home for tonight.


End file.
